My uncle had finally managed to snag an underwater job, working on harvesting at an algae farm, which would finally open his job list to more opportunities going forward. Luckily, he had come through it unscathed, although there had been several aquatic scares during the day, including from a giant black squid.
Nico had also broken through recently and had spent the day working at the furnaces, while my aunt was somehow still having difficulty catching the higher-paying jobs and, as a result, had been at the construction site again. As for Zina, she was staying at home for now due to morning sickness, although she hated it. She had taken to writing a story on her tablet to entertain herself, since there was no other entertainment in our bare houses. It made me ache for all those precious books we had left behind, now swallowed up and probably destroyed in the gas.
I sat my family down on the sofa and told them about my parents’ transfer to Beauchamp Hospital. They were relieved, but then I had to navigate the myriad of questions they threw at me regarding how and why. I explained to them in as few words as I could that I had taken on a confidential new work opportunity, and although they were anything but satisfied with that—my uncle especially—there was nothing more I could say. I couldn’t stay long, in any case, because I couldn’t be late for my appointment with Anna.
So, after hugging and kissing them good night, I took my leave and hurried toward the bridge. I made my way across and jogged the rest of the way to the shuttle station at Mowlbury Dock.
After about an hour-long journey, I found myself experiencing a wave of deja vu, standing once again in front of the tall, arched, metal Gate 14 of the giant fortress. I moved to the control panel that was fixed to the wall on one side and pressed the call button.
“Name and purpose, please,” a male voice responded.
“My name is Tanisha Lockwood. I have an appointment with Ms. Annabelle Springs at her home in Springs Turret.”
“Please scan your ring,” he replied after a moment, and then the speaker shut off.
I did as instructed, pressing the smooth, flat side of my ring against the matching rectangle on the control board. The gate glided open.
Unlike this morning, when I stepped through into the airy, oval reception area, music played in the background. It was a low piano tune that was pleasant, if not rather banal. I thought my cousins could play better music.
I arrived at the desk and found different white-uniform-clad receptionists sitting behind it than earlier. Two womenand the man I had spoken to. He was short, with curly black hair, and he rose to his feet, gesturing toward a set of heavy, metallic doors directly behind the reception desk.
“Follow me, please, Ms. Lockwood,” he said politely.
He touched his e-ring to a wall-scanner beside the doors to open them, and I followed him through into a large back office. He led me to an elevator near the back. When we stepped into it, I glanced at the control board. Of the numbers 1-200, number 31 was illuminated—as it was the level we were on, the ground floor—and I noticed a round button at the top of the numbers that I hadn’t seen in the elevators I’d taken this morning. It bore the letters “FF”, which the man pressed. The elevator doors closed.
“What does FF stand for?” I asked, as the elevator ascended.
“Founders’ Floor,” the man replied with a small smile.
“Oh, I see. And that floor connects to all the turrets, I assume?”
He nodded.
“How many turrets are there?” I wondered. From the aerial view I’d gotten of the island on the journey to Fairwell, I remembered there had been about a dozen, though I hadn’t properly counted.
“Thirteen,” the man replied.
“Ah… I was here this morning, and the elevators I used didn’t have that button.”
“That’s right.” He nodded. “Not all elevators connect to Founders’ Floor, for security reasons.”
“I see,” I mumbled, then fell silent as I watched the numbers light up in rapid succession. We were already at level 42.
When we reached the 100s, I began to feel queasy at thethought of us traveling so high.What if the elevator failed? Would we go crashing down through all these floors?
Thankfully, I didn’t have much longer to think about it. After a couple more minutes, the elevators doors slid open and we both stepped out.
The hallway we emerged on was curved, like the lower levels I’d visited, but here the walls weren’t bare. They were lined with paintings—not abstracts, either — real pictures; portraits of people. I found myself drawn to the one nearest to me, a picture of a noble looking man with a sharp nose and piercing blue eyes. He wore a crisp white suit and held some kind of ruby-topped walking stick, which looked more like a scepter from the way he held it. The art was so lifelike, the man almost looked real, and there was a gold plaque at the bottom that read:
Kenton R. Burchard.
My escort cleared his throat behind me. “This way, Ms. Lockwood,” he said.
I turned to follow him down the hallway, though my eyes remained glued to the paintings as we passed them, drinking in the faces and names.
“Are these all your original founders?” I wondered.
“Yes, ma’am—well, not all of them of course; there wouldn’t be space for all of them. But our most notable founders are hanging here.”
